Yeah, so I’ve been sitting here looking at my screen trying to find the right words to effectively convey how happy I am for my hetero-life-mate and arch-nemesis Spenc0r.

I love that dude and he’s got a girl that loves him, so much so that he asked her to marry him and she said yes and there go all my hopes and dreams.

I guess I missed the boat.  There it goes… sailing off into the glorious horizon with breasts at the helm.  How can I compete with that?

So as the lonely tears mark their tracks from my ducts to the floor, I raise a glass1 to you, Lord and Soon-To-Be-Lady Zyxt.  May the terror you wield together be as deep and terrible as the seas you sail, and may we meet again to wage our timeless battle, but only after you’ve weakened yourself with too much sex.  Thus shall my victory be complete.


Fucking love you more that I can ever say, dude.  Congratulations, and may all the happiness in the world be yours.



Just sayin’.

  1. See?! That’s funny under the circumstances!  FUNNY! []
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Never Forget the Portuguese Dagger.

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Wow.  This was kind of a fucked up couple weeks.

Not gonna go into it; I have some shame.  Some.

Gorge on provisions from self-acceptance and unadulterated fear and you compromise the ways to deal with the demons that rear at the most inopportune times, or how to manage the updrafts, or how to glide albatross in your own doldrums.  It’s tempestuous at best, debilitating at worst and I’m not managing them well lately, but that’s totally on me.  There’s lots of reasons, mostly internal.  Those that are external need to stay there and I’m remembering why I have been perfectly fine with that; I keep them at arm’s length for a reason.

I also use semicolons too much.  *shrug*

The thing is, shit like this happens, but it’s not for lack of trying. Sometimes the barbarians scale the walls and you’ve got to beat them back before you can restore order.  Other times, you’ve got conspirators in your midst.  Right now, I’m sweeping up the shards of the stained glass windows and saging the room from the stink of insurrection.  All in good time.


Someone’s been reading a lot of Byzantine History.


So this writing-a-book thing.  It was starting to get me down ’cause saw no progress.  Now it’s pissing me off.  I hate being told that I can’t do something, can’t have something.  The moment someone else has it, I wonder why I didn’t see its value.  I see a story to be told, and fuck all if I’m not going to tell it.  I seriously won’t let myself debilitate myself.  It’s ridiculous.

So I’ll keep trying.  I’ll keep sitting here, trying to figure out how to put words to paper, trial, tribulation, bullshit and angst all in the course of a few hours a night.

Lucky you:  If i’m not writing there, I’m writing here and this gets blasted with piss.

It’s gotta land somewhere.


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“Odd how it’s so much easier to write a single page than an entire blank book at once,” he grinned, and she thought he looked like he knew something nobody else did in the whole wide world.

Without asking, he took the book from her small hand and rotated it twice, as if he was inspecting the binding.  Turning to a random page, he inspected the front, then the back, saw nothing but white.  “Good.  The flow, the diction, the unanticipated nuances of where the words – and worlds – take you aren’t remotely as confining as the ones you think you need to be building.  This is a canvas, girl… Where is the paint?

He squinted slightly.  “But you’ve got plan, don’t you?”

“I was given a book once,” he murmured.  “Not these banal glue-bound periodicals on your shelf with names like ‘Mole goes to School,’ or ‘You Must Be Remedial If You Need To Use Fruit In Arithmetic’, but a real book.  A book that opens your mind!  A book that takes you to those places you will never hope to see with your earthly eyes, child…  A book that unlocks the key to your very soul!

He looked down at an arm – his arm? – gripping her tightly by the wrist.  He inhaled sharply, closed his eyes, and let her hand fall.  She stepped back two paces but did not run.

“It shows you every pitfall, every rationalization, every possible spear aimed at your heart from the Native Dark that will keep you from doing that which you were born to – and are afraid to – do…”

As his breathing slowed, he stroked his mustache with his right thumb as he was wont to do in those small vulnerable moments past distress and looked down his nose, monocle clenched tight in his right eye, magnifying the emotion he so carefully guarded.

“Believe you me, child,” he whispered as he picked a small yellow flower, and stroking her hair, slid it quietly behind her ear. “It will take you exactly where you need to be.”

“What book, sir?”

He grinned again, this time as a conspirator.

“The one in your hand, girl.”


Technically speaking, the Dog Days of Summer are reserved for those swampy, swarthy mid-August afternoons when no amount of iced tea or Pacifico can quench the thirst that bores into your throat like a tick on a, well, dog.  Puritan.  Evil.  No getting around them.

We’re not even close to those days… yet.

But here we sit in 90 degree weather; thankful and hopeful that when the sun goes down and quiet descends on the neighborhood, that peacefulness will creep into our homes like a benevolent Angel of Death, ready to anoint us with the passage of yet another day that will pile onto the already massive memories of Summers before.  Pools, bellyflops, creeks and tadpoles; stalwarts of these moments that build character.  It’s just a scratch, boy.

Laziness is the rule of the day, insofar as even when you can’t be lazy, every cell in your body slows down to entice you to its natural resting place, a place of beauty, dreams, sweaty sheets and foggy heads.

The girls watch bad television, I put words to screen.

When I look at where we could be in relation to where we are now, I revel – no pun intended – in what we’ve done and accomplished.  Embracing the possibilities and being thankful for our small, well-built home, I’d give nothing to change it.  The joy and mania of adolescence at the swimming pool to the wind whispering sleep from the leaves, the beauty exists not outside, but in here, in 79 degree living rooms laden with the smells of curry and the promise of laughter and energy.

Anticipation in its most visceral form:  Knowing that wonder and greatness is ahead.

It is the sweetest of all deserts.


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An email just went out to the management staff at my place of employment: Looks like we’re going to take part in the San Francisco Pride parade on June 29th.

I realize that it’s Marketing, and I realize it may not necessarily be philanthropic in nature…

But I’m really proud to work for an organization that actively and proudly supports equality.

Never had that before… and it’s really, really cool.



–  I’m sleepy.

+  I just had some tea, so maybe that’ll change.

+  I’ve been writing more.  It really is a muscle that needs to be worked to feel confidence in my abilities.  I’ll get there.

+  Ditched Facebook.  Not gonna lie, been back to be narcissistic a bit, but other than that, bye bye birdie.

–  Facebook really is an addiction.  I’ve found myself getting anxious because I’m not scrolling through the bullshit.  How weird is that?  It just becomes so ingrained and we pour it down our throats of our own accord.  I hereby rebel.

–  Reza’s growing up too fast.

+  Reza’s turning a personality corner and it’s pretty awesome.  Her relationship with her Mom has bloomed and it’s a beautiful thing to see.  She’s still – and will always be – opinionated and spunky, but shit if she’s not smart as a slap to the ass.

–  Money is tight and that makes for a bit of added stress.  Nothing we can’t handle, but lots of shit out of the blue.  We’re good about buckling down when we need to and this is one of those times.  All good, though, and that’s no lie.

+  Excited for the girls to head to San Diego in July.  I know it never goes as planned, but the ends justify the means if that means Reza and Ivonne can spend time with Bee and Ivonne’s parents.  They adore Reza – but will hate her haircut!  yeah! – and Reza needs that exposure.

–  Reza is having issues coming to grips with her heritage.  I realize it bums Ivonne out, but she’s not doing it on purpose – she’s doing it because she has no reference, no correlation to the importance of her heritage.  That’s something that both Ivonne and I failed to do.  With more exposure to her heritage comes pride in it – and that needs to be addressed stat.

+  We are peaceful right now and I couldn’t be happier with that.  Ivonne and I need more time together, but we’re kinda dependent on each other, so that’s nothing new.  But I like peaceful.  Peaceful is happiness in tangible form.

–  I just realize these +/- posts are very much like long-form Facebook updates.  Hmm.  Is it laziness or convenience?

+  Passport application submitted.  That needed to be done in a big way, simply because you gotta get back in to Mexico somehow, and frankly – I need to get out of the country on vacation like NOW.

+  Istanbul, anyone?

+  Or Japan?

+  Or Paris?

+  Or Iceland?

+  Or Yosemite?  (I SEE YOU, LOGIC FLAW)

–  Gotta wait ’til shit calms down here, first.  Hopefully I can jet down to San Diego when the girls go.  I shall + that part.

+  Girls in 20.  Hopefully my lady is wearing slutty underwear.  To bed Reza!  To bed!

–  Shit!  Forgot to do Prelims!  Back to work!


I had a very existential Facebook argument with my brother Jared one day.  Under normal circumstances, I tend to try to stay away from those, but Jared’s a really smart guy and it’s fun to fence with people who can legitimately argue their position with accuracy and reason.  The idea was just that – that an idea could change perception, and with that perception comes a change in reality.

My argument is that truth and reality are based exclusively on what you think know, what you see, what you feel – what you perceive as real.  That can be very, very different than what the person next to you may perceive as real.  Are you wearing a Black sweater?  Yes, but we both see it, feel it, touch it1 –  a perception unequivocal and shared.   But if you’re sitting at one end of the train car from the person who thinks your sweater is Black but really, it’s a Navy Blue, well, that person is right in their own mind – within their own perception – until proven wrong by walking closer and realizing, oh.. I’ve made a serious error.

Case in point:  Until Magellan’s slave made it back to Spain to proudly proclaim to the known world, “World!  I bring you evidence that the Earth is Round!” the perception of the Earth – and therefore the reality propagated by that perception – was that the Earth just absolutely must be flat.  There’s no other way it could be, you dickshot imbecile.

Known world.

Think about that for a second:  The world you know is your reality, yet there are billions of untold secrets the Earth holds for us – let alone six miles straight up from where you sit now – but we sit here awash in a unique perspective of reality.  The untold bits and pieces of what makes up that reality belong expressly to me.  Why?  There’s no way we have read, seen, drank, fucked, amazed and dashed the hopes of the same things – and those building blocks create that reality.

Sure, there are underlying, infallible truths that we accept.  The Earth Is Round.  But nobody reading this right now – unless you called your spacefaring aunt to come read this sentence and thereby blow my mind – has seen this for themselves.  But when we realize that we accept truths rather than experience them, we leave ourselves open to the greatest philosophical loophole:  prove it.

So when I sat here and told my daughter, after she asked me point blank whether Santa Claus was real, that, no, baby girl, Santa Claus isn’t real, her tears and anxiety changed my perception.  The idea of Santa Claus – the joy, the presents, the childhood – became reality, a reality that I absolutely refused to shatter.

“How do you know he isn’t real??”

And with that, I sacrificed my personal integrity to be a better Dad, because Fuck You, You’re A Dick If You’re Going To Crush Your Child’s Reality For The Sake Of Truth.

When she calmed down and I’d successfully, yet messily, extracted myself from the situation by telling her she’d really given me something to think about, she sat there licking her ice cream cone as if nothing had happened.  “Let’s talk tomorrow, Dad,” she said as she let her legs relax from her chest and brushed the errant hair sticking to her damp cheek, “and you tell me after work whether or not you believe in Santa, because if you don’t, then that means Santa’s not in your heart.  Feel it here,” as she pointed to her chest.  And with a finger to her forehead, she showed me the error in my logic.

“Not here.”

Maybe it’s not the Captain’s place to tell the Queen’s subjects that the Earth isn’t Flat.  Maybe it takes one of the people.

So be it, and I’ll happily relax under the shade of Childhood for a long as I can.

  1. or maybe not if you don’t want to get arrested for assault []
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“As a writer, it is imperative that you avoid the expected.”